


Be careful what you ask for

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-09 00:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8869327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: Mr Gold has acquired a temporary and somewhat unwilling shop assistant in the form of the delectable town librarian but he may just have bitten off more than he can chew. Has the infamous dealmaker finally met his match in Belle French?





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a blustery autumn morning and Mr Gold is examining an antique garnet ring, holding it up to the light to check for blemishes, when the bell starts clanging and a small bundle of russet wool blasts through the door with unnecessary force, dragging in its wake a large quantity of autumn leaves and an icy blast of wind.

“What. Is. This?” An envelope is slapped down on the counter with considerable force.

Gold quirks an eyebrow at the clearly infuriated librarian standing in front of him with blue eyes flashing in fury and cheeks more than a little flushed before nudging the document back across the counter towards her. 

She really is enchanting when she’s in a rage.

Acutely aware that his every movement is being tracked, Gold takes his time in replacing the ring in one of the glass display cabinets. A toe tapping on his parquet flooring hints at impatience and irritation. How satisfying.

“Miss French” he purrs, “and there I was thinking you were the town’s highly educated librarian.”

The town’s highly educated librarian huffs before wagging a finger at the most irritating man ever to have existed. 

“That, Mr Gold, was a rhetorical question. Perhaps you’d like to borrow a dictionary from the library if you need elucidation.” And back comes the document towards him, a little less gently this time.

Gold can’t resist a small smirk; his interaction with the majority of Storybrooke’s citizens is limited to snarls, biting sarcasm and financial transactions and he’s really rather enjoying the fire in his sparring partner’s belly. 

“Well I’m sorry Miss French but you are clearly labouring under the misapprehension that you have a choice in this. You said, and I quote, ‘Please help me Mr Gold, I’ll do anything to save the library, anything at all.’ The subtle emphasis on ‘anything’ makes Belle wince.

I think you’ll agree that I've upheld my end of the bargain - I haven’t received any complaints unless I'm very much mistaken - so this,” Gold faux sighs apologetically, “is your’s.”

Another slide of the envelope back to his opponent, and this time he allows his hand to rest on top of it, keeping it in place. And checkmate.

For a moment the only sound in the room is the rain, now falling even more heavily, drumming against the roof and battering the windows. Gold watches Belle closely as she so clearly deliberates her next move, trying to work out if there’s any chance she can renegotiate the deal but he knows it’s an exercise in futility because he’s all about the small print, the detail, and there’s nothing he’s missed. Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. 

Belle manages - just - to suppress the understandable urge to throttle Gold for being the biggest pedant ever to live, as he stands there in his ridiculous suit that almost certainly cost more than the library’s entire collection of rare editions, sporting a stupid silk tie and silly pocket square, looking so smug and superior and handsome…

Where did that come from. He’s not handsome, he’s not. He’s, he’s, well he’s the shady side of 50, his hair is never going to be brown again unless it’s courtesy of a bottle, and his teeth are snaggly and what’s with his nose anyway, being all long and pointy.

Satisfied that she’s firmly put any notion of Gold being a catch to bed, Belle decides to go on the offensive. She dramatically removes the sheaf of paper from the envelope and with a flourish mimicking the more flamboyant gestures of the pawn shop owner, reads the document out loud in an approximation of Gold’s Scottish burr. 

“Miss French” and she pauses to glare in what she hopes is a ferocious fashion at him (he returns the glare unabashed), “is required to assist Mr Gold, owner of Gold Pawnbrokers of Storybrooke” and she breaks off here to mouth a silent “Really?” at him, “every Sunday for four weeks carrying out general shop assistant duties as he sees fit, such as dusting, polishing, sorting stock, indexing the books prior to display, rearranging assorted display cases and carrying out a backroom stocktake.”

Belle takes a dramatic pause before continuing but Gold’s gaze is unwavering. 

“The hours are from 9am until 5pm, with one hour allowed for lunch, as well as a morning and afternoon tea break, to last no longer than 15 minutes. Tardiness will not be tolerated.” Gold is surprised that such a dainty little thing is capable of such a loud, unladylike snort and is not sure he is completely successful in hiding his amusement. He lowers his head to allow his hair to veil his face.

Ah but she hasn’t quite finished.

“A dress code applies.” As Belle’s voice rises in indignation at the implied suggestion that her attire is anything other than appropriate Gold suddenly finds the floor simply fascinating and he can’t help a mini shoe shuffle as he thinks that he might possibly have just pushed his luck too far with the last sentence.

“A dress code, Mr Gold. A dress code. What exactly are we talking here? A maid’s outfit perhaps? Complete with a feather duster and frilly apron?"

Gold’s trousers suddenly feel a trifle too tight.

“An excellent suggestion if I may say so. After all it is a little dusty in here, dearie” and if his voice is a little deeper now, hopefully Miss French will be too preoccupied to notice.

Happily for Gold this proves to the case. It seems it is only too easy to get Belle to rise to the bait. She leans over the counter and prods - yes, prods - Gold in the chest. “Do not push your luck,” she enunciates crisply.

If Gold was the quailing sort, he’d be rather intimidated by the sudden fury in Belle’s eyes but instead he rather admires her spark. She makes a rather charming adversary.

“Uh, Miss French, let me stop you there before you self-combust.” Belle’s face turns puce and Gold waves an elegant hand to suggest she remains silent, leading to a very chewed lower lip. “I simply meant that you might want to,” and he gestures at her four inch stilettos “wear flat shoes. More comfortable you know when you’re on your feet all day. After alI, I wouldn’t want you to sue me under health and safety regulations.”

Belle pauses because if she doesn’t she might scream in frustration. But then a moment’s reflection makes her see, because she’s a reasonable human being - unlike some she could mention - that he does perhaps have a point. Perhaps, too, he’s genuinely being considerate rather than trying to provoke her into a reaction although she’s not entirely convinced he has her best interests at heart. The man is sleek and dangerous, if the speculative gleam in his darker than dark eyes is anything to go by.

Belle is no fool. She knows - and he knows she knows - that she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Gold’s deals are unbreakable and that’s that. Not for the first time she berates herself for having allowed emotion to cloud her judgement, how the fear of losing the library, her livelihood, her everything, led her as a last resort to seek out Storybrooke’s very own Mephistopheles.

Yet maybe, just maybe, it might not end up being a complete disaster spending time in Gold’s lair. He does have an amazing collection of books she’s been desperate to get her hands on that she’ll now have the opportunity to peruse and she suspects that with his eloquence and clever way with words he can probably spin a good yarn about some of the more curious objects scattered around the shop. 

And whatever you want to say about him, Gold is never boring, always unpredictable. It might be - fun - to poke the dragon’s breast to see if there is a soft spot lurking amongst the hard scales. 

Belle eyes him from beneath her lashes. 

“Very well, Mr Gold. Alright, you have a deal.”

Gold’s smile is perfunctory, his face carefully blank, as he hands her his antique fountain pen so she can sign the contract.

“But I have some conditions of my own before I sign.”

Gold frowns, thinking this isn’t part of the script but hesitates.

“I’m listening.”

“Condition one; you’re responsible for making morning and afternoon pots of tea. I take earl grey, black, no sugar.” Condition two: No uniforms. And condition three: you have to tell me a story about one object in your shop each week.”

Gold is silent as he mulls over what has just transpired. It seems the librarian has teeth (and very small and white and bright they are, too). This has just got a lot more interesting.

“Very well. You bring the biscuits. Dark milk digestives. Flat shoes only. I don’t want to have to catch you when you trip and fall off my ladder. And I choose the object. Are you happy with the additional clauses, Miss French, because I’m a very busy man and I’d like to get on if that’s alright with you?”

And Belle finds that she is.

He swiftly makes the changes, in tiny, neat handwriting, Belle watching carefully in case of any impish trickery.

Once she’s assured that everything is above board, their fingers brush when Belle leans across to take his pen and Gold’s hand tingles from the unexpected contact. He glances up to see Belle looking at him curiously before her gaze slides away for a second. She writes the most elaborate signature he’s ever seen and finishes it off with a dramatic flourish he can’t help but admire.

“Until 9am Sunday, then, Miss French.”

Belle is dismissed with a curt nod that does nothing to soothe her nerves or her temper and in a turn of speed that defies gravity she is out of the door and halfway across the street before the door bangs shut behind her with an unnecessarily loud thump.

Gold stares after her and then looks down again at the contract, battening down a sense of anticipation at what’s just transpired. So he’s got himself a deal. And an unwilling shop assistant. He has no idea what to expect when Sunday arrives but whatever it is, it’s going to be quite the adventure. And one he finds he’s really not that averse to.


	2. Week one: spinning wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Belle's first day working in Gold's shop to fulfil the conditions of their deal and the wily pawnbroker quickly realises it's foolish to underestimate the opposition.

It’s just before nine o’clock on a bitterly cold Sunday morning and Mr Gold is where he always is at that time of day; standing behind the counter of his shop, neatly aligning his fountain pen with his black leather-bound notebook.

But today deviates from the norm in one way. Because today he is waiting for the arrival of Miss French to take up her temporary role as his unwilling sales assistant.

'Come into my parlour', said the spider to the fly.

Gold genuinely has no idea what to expect from today and a tremor of anticipation runs down his spine.The librarian could be all bottled up rage at being trapped into spending time with him or she could be the warm, friendly-to-everyone little ray of sunshine with a smile that could light up the whole of Maine. He leans more towards the former as a realistic scenario.

With approximately ninety seconds to spare before Miss French is officially late, the bell starts to jangle and Gold slowly raises his head to see a vision in velvet step through the door. 

He’s about to find out.

“Miss French, I’m pleased to see you’re at least punctual” and he taps his fob watch whilst slyly noting the tight lipped smile she flashes his way. 

“Yes, well, Mr Gold, never let it be said that I don’t keep to my side of the bargain,” Belle quietly replies, before moving over to the counter where she unravels a soft moss-green scarf and plops it unceremoniously down right on top of his careful arrangement of stationery. 

Gold shudders before delicately nudging the scarf to one side and straightening his accessories once more. He looks up just in time to see Belle carefully wipe a smirk from her face but the lingering gleam of amusement in her eyes suddenly makes Gold feel a little disquieted. Surely she should be intimidated by him, not entertained. 

This will never do.

“Shall we?” and Gold gestures towards the back room. Belle waits politely for him to lead the way before following him through the curtained doorway into what is clearly his workshop.

And she stops abruptly because every single corner of this space is crammed with objects; there are piles of books teetering precariously, boxes of coins and buttons littering the floor, alongside balls of wool and thread and yet more crates containing old prints and sketches. Cleaning implements cover an antique desk, battling for space with the innards of a large clock, an oil lamp and what looks suspiciously like a stuffed beaver, only one that’s seen better days.

Gold hears her tiny gasp and turns his head to look at her in concern, only to realise the noise is not one of dismay but of delight. Belle still hasn’t said a word but then she looks at him with eyes that are shining just a little too brightly for his liking.

Mentally casting his own eye over the room, Gold can see what it might look like to a newcomer. Its contents could easily resemble a dragon’s hoard and this might appeal to those of a curious nature. But that’s beside the point. Belle’s not here to enjoy herself, she’s here to do something useful, to serve out the terms of their contract - no more no less.

“Your coat, Miss French,” and Gold waits for Belle to pull herself together. Eventually she starts tugging the buttons through their loops and hands it over to him. 

It takes a second for Belle’s outfit to register with Gold but when it does he can’t help a grim smile. It appears he may have been outmanoeuvred. For whilst the skirt sits at calf level - and is therefore quite suited to the role she is to perform today - Gold can’t exactly say the same for what’s going on above the knee. There’s decolletage that does things to an old man’s breathing and then there’s soft, silky fabric that clings to the waist that leaves little to the imagination. It’s positively indecent.

He notes sourly that Belle is looking just a trifle smug.

Whilst Gold is reminding himself of how his lungs are supposed to work, Belle gently rescues her coat from his clutches, draping it over the back of a chair and this action revives him. Ensuring his gaze never drops below Belle’s chin, Gold masters his usual clipped, precise tone and sets to describing the day’s tasks, which primarily involves removing all the jewellry from the display cases, photographing each item and recording the date on the back. 

Belle is all eagerness to start (no doubt keen to escape his unwelcome company, Gold thinks wryly) so he ushers her back through to the shop, unlocks a display case, shows her how to use the camera, provides her with a pencil and pencil sharpener and then excuses himself to hide away for the rest of the morning, leaving Belle to her own devices.

Safely secure behind his desk, Gold takes a deep breath before selecting a gold coil from the jumble of wires and cogs in front of him. His heart sinking slightly, he suspects it’s going to be a long day and not for the first time he wishes he could sometimes resist the lure of a deal and instead just do someone a good deed.

00000

It’s gone three o’clock and Gold, feeling deeply frustrated as yet again the spring fails to lock back into place, has just thrown it on the table in disgust when Miss French pokes her head through the curtain and waves a packet of chocolate digestives at him, displaying a remarkable level of bravery in tempting the beast with confectionary. 

“Time for tea, Mr Gold?” and he nods warily, gesturing towards the armchair in the corner. He supposes he could do with a break from tweezers and magnifying glasses and that damned clock.

‘Please take a seat Miss French. I believe it’s earl grey, black, no sugar for you?” and before she has time to reply Gold disappears to fill and boil the kettle, returning with a huge floral teapot and two mismatched cups and saucers.

“Shall I be mother?” Belle asks and starts to open the biscuits, before searching futilely for something to put them on.

“Ah, allow me,” and Gold conjures up a beautiful side plate, decorated with pink roses and a silver edged rim. He carefully arranges five or six biscuits, all equidistance from each other and waits politely for Belle to select one.

Neither of them speak for a moment, both concentrating a little too hard on not spilling their tea or dropping crumbs everywhere. Gold is rarely disconcerted but he is unsure how to behave in front of Belle. Shouldn’t she be quaking in her boots instead of munching calmly on her biscuit whilst surreptitiously eyeing up the first editions.

He looks up from brushing some crumbs from his lap to see Belle scrutinising him closely. All he can hear is the ticking of the grandfather clock and he is suddenly eager to fill the silence.

“So Miss French, I believe you bartered for a story, so what artefact would you like to know more about?”

Gold has barely finished his sentence before Belle bounds away with the enthusiasm of a newborn lamb, returning a few seconds later with a faded, rather tatty looking silk scarf adorned with tiny spinning wheels and Gold can feel himself blench a little. Of all the things he has in the shop it would have to be that that caught her eyes. 

Any ‘normal’ person would surely have opted for one of the exquisite (and completely impersonal) pieces of glassware or oil paintings adorning the walls so it’s just his luck he’s managed to secure the services of the one person in town with quirky taste and an eye for the unusual. 

He suppresses a sigh; after all a deal is a deal and he is - whatever people might like to say of him - a man of his word. 

Gold leans across to take it from her and his fingers accidentally brush against hers, making him jump like a scalded cat.

Needing to regroup, he takes a few moments to savour the feel of the cool fabric as it slips through his fingers. He hasn’t seen or thought about this scarf in decades and it takes him right back to his childhood, something he’s never discussed with anyone, not even his own son. 

“An interesting choice Miss French, I thought you might go for something more, well obvious.” Gold clears his throat, buying still more time as he tries to work out in his mind what to say. He glances up and wishes Belle’s eyes were less blue and not shimmering with something that might almost be concern. 

Well, here goes nothing.

“When I was a wee lad growing up in Scotland, we didn’t have much money; we were in fact as poor as a family of church mice. We lived on a smallholding and kept a few chickens and some sheep. My grandmother owned a spinning wheel and on long cold winter nights she and I would sit together by the fire and she’d spin reams and reams of yarn to sell at a local market; I still remember how the living room would always smell of peat whilst outside the wind howled”.

Belle is clearly hanging on his every word and he has to shut down an unwelcome flutter in his stomach; it’s been a long time since he’s been the focus of someone else’s attention.

Gold concentrates on the story. 

“As she grew older and her eyesight started to fail, she taught me how to spin so her skills could be passed down to the next generation. I used to practice until I couldn’t feel my hands any more but one day I managed to produce a perfect skein of wool and as a reward she wove me a miniature spinning wheel out of silk and sewed in onto my favourite scarf. After that, every time I did something that pleased her, she’d make another one for me. And did so up until the very end. Once she died, I couldn’t bear to wear it; it smelled of woodsmoke and her perfume, so I locked it away in an old chest with the rest of her mementos and to be honest until this morning I’d completely forgotten about it.”

The whole time he’s been speaking Gold has been staring at the scarf and he’s startled when Belle gently takes it from his unresisting hands and carefully traces one of the tiny spinning wheels.

“They’re so delicate, like spider webs.”

She strokes the fabric and as Gold watches her out of the corner of his eye he suddenly reaches a decision.

“It’s yours, Miss French. If you’d like it.”

Belle stares at him, then stares at the scarf.

“Oh I couldn’t, Mr Gold, it’s a family heirloom.”

“Please Miss French, it would look a hundred times better on you than it would me. And besides I’d forgotten all about it until you showed it to me just now. This was meant to be worn, not locked away, and you’d be doing me a favour.” 

Belle still looks uncertain and Gold worries that he’s made her feel uncomfortable.

“Beside, I can’t let the place get cluttered up. It’s a devil to dust as it is, as you’ll discover for yourself next week.”

He waves grandly around the aladdin’s cave they’re sitting in and Belle can’t help giggling and it’s a lovely sound indeed. 

“Thank you, I’ll treasure it.”

Gold feels a strange mix of relief that the conversation has ended and an anxiety he’s revealed a little too much of the real man lurking beneath his carefully curated armour.

Getting to his feet, he rather brusquely reminds Belle that dilly dallying is not part of their agreement.

“I believe you’ve barely started on the inventory so jump to it.” He steadfastly avoids looking at her, instead focusing on gathering up the tea things. When he turns around, she’s gone and the danger’s been averted, for the time-being at least.

00000

It’s gone five o’clock, it’s pitch dark outside and it’s time to start wrapping up for the day. Gold has made very little progress with anything today, his usual focus has been somewhat lacking and his knee is playing up, thanks to the weather. 

Leaning heavily on his cane, he makes his way through to the shop. Belle has her back to him and is clearly still engrossed in her task. Gold watches as she places a 1950s marcasite brooch back in its box, treating it with great reverence even though it’s just a trinket. He’s rather touched at the effort she’s making, as if she really cares about what she’s been asked to do rather than doing it under duress.

She’s an odd fish, the librarian, and the thought flashes through his mind that if the circumstances were different they might actually get on rather well.

“It’s getting late and the forecast is for more snow so I think you’ve done enough for one day, Miss French.”

Belle spins on her chair so she’s facing Gold.

“I can stay later if there’s anything you need me to do, I’m not in any rush and besides I’m only over the road.”

A tiny voice in Gold’s head tells him that perhaps they could share another cup of tea if she’s in no hurry to get home but he worries that it’s been too easy, too comfortable, having her here today with him. She’s been quietly industrious and somehow her presence has not been as disruptive as he’d expected and he’s unsure how he feels about this.

“No I insist Miss French. You haven’t had much of a weekend so it’s time I released you.”

Belle hesitates and Gold wonders if she’s going to put up a fight but instead she disappears off in search of her coat. When she stands in front of him again he notes that the mass of green fluffy scarf from this morning is now peeking out of her bag and that the light catches a tiny metallic spinning wheel that rests against her collarbone.

“I’ll see you next Sunday then.”

And then as quickly as she arrived this morning she’s gone again like a diminutive whirlwind, leaving Gold to the silence and the unwelcome thoughts circling his brain.

“Indeed.”

Today has absolutely not gone according to plan.


	3. Week two: the inscription

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Gold start to settle in to their new working relationship and Belle starts to peel back the layers of armour protecting the pawnbroker.

“So tell me about the stuffed beaver.”

Mr Gold chokes on his tea which is now burning its way down his oesophagus.

“I beg your pardon. My stuffed what?”

Belle keeps a straight face and points towards the somewhat wilted animal, mournful of expression and lacking in fur, mounted in a glass case.

Gold exhales.

“Oh that old thing? Really, you want me to tell you about that? When there are so many more interesting things you could ask about?”

Belle’s lips twitch. She wasn’t really interested but she enjoys teasing Gold, it’s more fun than she’d ever imagined.

“Well alright, I suppose that story can wait for another day,” she says, and then notes an odd, indefinable expression that flickers across his face before the shutters close again. 

“That’s very presumptuous of you, dearie, seeing as how you only have two more weeks left after today. Tick tock, dearie, tick tock.”

It’s Belle’s second Sunday of penance and already she is feeling considerably more comfortable in Gold’s presence. She rolls her eyes and ignores his jibe. Instead she gets up and moves slowly over to one of the many teetering piles of books and bends down to scrutinise their spines, affording Mr Gold a glimpse, if he happens to be looking, of something that looks remarkably like a stocking top. She hears a sharp intake of breath and grins to herself.

“Miss French, might I refer you to the terms of our contract which as I distinctly recall, stated that appropriate clothing should be worn during work hours.”

Belle turns to look at him and then look down at her skirt, or lack of, in mock surprise.

“I am wearing a shirt, my thickest, wooliest jumper in fact, seeing as how you are a mean scrooge who doesn’t believe in heating…” 

“I’m from Scotland, lassie, and there it’s not cold until the insides of your windows have frozen over,” Gold interrupts, only for Belle to snort inelegantly. 

“And a skirt,” Belle continues unabashed, “all of which I believe meet your criteria. So if there’s a problem, it’s yours, not mine.” And with that, Belle turns her attention back to the books. A few moments later and she crows in triumph before bobbing down to pick an early edition of The Hobbit, a book she’d always loved as a child. Even the cover is the same, the one with the spindly dragon spouting flames hovering above a town in flames.

She returns to her seat, clutching her prize, and then daintily crosses one leg over the other. 

Gold’s face has turned an interesting shade of red and Belle observes from beneath her lashes that he’s tugging at his tie to loosen it a little.

It’s almost too easy.

Finally relenting and taking pity on her employer, Belle leans across to hand the book to him and watches as he flips it open to the front page. He suddenly becomes very still and she sees that he’s totally focussed on the inscription, scrawled in a bold, looping hand. 

Somehow, she groans to herself, with unerring aim she’s managed to home in on yet another object that holds sentimental value for the man opposite her. 

Belle slowly pours the tea, hands him a biscuit, and then settles in, content to give him the time to gather his thoughts.

Ten seconds later (or perhaps five, if anyone’s counting).

“So, who was it from?”

“Patience, Miss French, is a virtue, did nobody ever teach you at school?” Gold mutters but Belle takes no offense at his words. She’s already worked out that he’s all bark, no bite.

Eventually Gold reads aloud the message. His voice is low and gravelly, his Scottish accent coming through more strongly than usual, and Belle’s stomach suddenly flutters in a completely unexpected way.

Where did that come from?

“Papa, Someone once told me that if you love books you’ll never be lonely. So here’s to another year of perfect solitude. Your loving Baelfire.”

Gold raises his eyes to Belle’s and there’s that heat again that flares in the pit of her stomach. 

“This, Miss French, was a gift from my son,” and anticipating a flurry of questions being fired his way, he holds his hand up in an attempt to stave them off. Belle snaps her mouth shut, with a clack of teeth.

“And before you ask, my son is alive and well and working in Boston so prepare to be disappointed - there’s no family drama here.” 

Belle suspects him of a tiny white lie but...well, where’s the harm. She doesn’t want to spook the man and she’s is more interested in what lies behind the gift than probing into what is almost certainly a personal family issue she has no place asking about.

Belle silently nudges the plate of biscuits across the table and Gold selects the one closest to him before starting to speak. Belle finds herself leaning in so she doesn’t miss a word.

“My son is an only child and growing up was, well, it was difficult for him. My - um...er... wife left us when he was a wee bairn. He didn’t have many friends because divorce was still frowned upon where we came from, and a father raising a child by himself was almost unheard of.”

Gold’s eyes flutter shut for a moment or two and Belle can’t help the tiny hiss of sympathy that escapes her lips.

He picks up from where he left off, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“But luckily Baelfire loved reading, could sit all afternoon curled up with a book. And he was blessed with an endless imagination and was obsessed from when he was a wee tot with dragons and elves and fairy tales.” 

Belle watches Gold trace the inscription and she admires for a moment how elegant his hands are. Just for a second she imagines what it might feel like if he traced his fingers down her arm and shivers.

“This was the first book I ever read out loud to him and when we got to the death of Smaug, he cried and sobbed, completely caught up in the dragon’s dying moments. And every night, once he’d calmed down I would say “Right son, that is the last time, the very last time, I read that to you. And then the next night, he’d come and crawl into my lap and look up at me with big brown eyes pleading and say ‘Papa, please read to me about Smaug again’ and I never found it in my heart to deny him and so it continued until the day suddenly dragons were for babies, and he’d discovered football and messing about outside.”

Belle watches Gold flicking through the pages until he finds an illustration of Smaug sitting on top of a huge pile of treasure and something catches in her throat at the expression on his face. He’s silent as he studies the picture before one corner of his mouth turns up in the slightest of smiles. 

“So, this book was a gift to me as a silly little reminder.” He clears his throat and glances up at Belle with eyes that are darker and deeper than ever, and and her heart gives one heavy thud before she looks away. 

“Now you’ve found it I might take it home tonight to re-read, so thank you.” And with that, he snaps the book shut, and she knows this is his way of signalling that the conversation is clearly over and that she won’t get any more from him today.  
Gold indicates with one of those elegant flicks of his wrist that there is work to be done and she should get on with it and Belle doesn’t argue with him. The man who is as tight shut as any clam has chosen to open up to her - her - and Belle needs time to process how that makes her feel. 

Gold collects his cane and taps his way over to his desk and Belle resettles herself back at the counter to continue ploughing through Gold’s log book but she finds it hard to focus, her mind focused on her co-worker. He’s proving to be an enigma, the wily pawnbroker, and there’s nothing Belle likes more than a challenge, a puzzle to work out.

When she’d agreed to his price for fixing the library she hadn’t really known what she was getting herself into. The landowner had a justifiably fearsome reputation and when she’d told Ruby what she’d got herself into, the conversation went pretty much as expected (to start with at least).

“You’ve done what? Are you out of your mind?”

“It was that or close the library and I was never going to do that.”

“You could have done some fundraising. Anything but go to that man, Belles.”

“Fund raising takes ages and time was not on my side, you know it wasn’t. And yes it sounds crazy but although he drives a hard bargain, he always keeps his word. So, bottom line; he fixed the library and I’m going to be his Girl Sunday. End of story.”

And this was where the conversation suddenly veered off course.

“Well, I hope you’re at least going to use your time wisely. You know, see if you can find what lies beneath the Armani. My money’s on dragon scales.”

“Ruby. It’s a business deal. Quit with the fanciful tales.”

“Just saying…he’s kinda fit for a man of his age. And he knows how to rock a suit.”

“Rubes. As I said it’s just a business deal and I very much doubt we’ll be doing anything very much other than exchange buttock-clenching awkward small talk over the digestives.”

“Well come to mention it, his buttocks are…”

“Ruby, we’re done here”...

“Rather taut.”

“Ruby”

00000

Belle sighs as she squints at some of Gold’s tiny handwritten notes, trying to decipher the descriptions. Ruby was certainly right about one thing. The suits certainly do Mr Gold justice, the way the trousers hug his hips and the jacket moulds to his frame. 

Belle is just musing on where he goes to buy the suits and if they are made to measure and who gets to do the measuring when a soft shuffle behind her makes her realise she is no longer alone. She looks up to see Gold’s dark eyes on her.

“It’s getting late, dearie, surely you have somewhere better to be?”

Belle can feel the heat flaring up in her face; she’s so hot she feels she could self-combust. It’s a good job the man isn’t a mind reader.

“Not really, it’s just me and a large bowl of pasta tonight. It’s not really the weather for going out,” and she nods towards the window where huge flakes of snow are reflected in the street lights.

“Well you’d better get going, else you’ll be snowed in and that would never do.” 

Belle suddenly thinks there are far worse case scenarios than being snowed in with Mr Gold but he’s already helping her shrug into her coat before gently pushing her towards the door. 

“Until next Sunday, Miss French. Now don’t dawdle.”

She’s barely out of the door before she hears the shutters being closed. She sighs, pulling her scarf more tightly around her neck and shuffles through the snow which is already up to her ankles. 

As she settles herself in for the evening with a steaming bowl of spaghetti carbonara and a healthy measure of red wine, she can’t help wondering how Gold spends his evenings; does he have any friends; does he enjoy leading a solitary life; has he ever been in love (he has a son after all)? 

Does he listen to music, and if so what music (classic, jazz vocalists, folk bands)? Does he read? He must read, the shop is full of weighty tomes and classics. Does he enjoy company, does he enjoy her company, does he ever think about her? 

Belle mentally stops herself from poring over every aspect of Gold's private life, and takes another sip of wine. The man is dangerously close to becoming an obsession with her and she can guarantee he doesn’t give her a second thought once she’s out of his hair. His lovely, long, silky hair.

Time to get royally drunk. And maybe call Ruby later for a sense check.

“Belles. Is everything alright?” Ruby sounds anxious, it’s past midnight, but when Belle doesn’t immediately answer, Ruby makes a wild stab in the dark.

“Oh God. Please tell me this isn’t about Gold.”

It turns out the stab wasn’t that wild, after all.

“He’s so lonely,” Belle wails. 

“He’s a mean old miser, Belle, who no doubt loves wallowing in his own misery whilst counting out his rent money. Which is what he’s almost certainly doing right now.”

“He’s got lovely hands.”

Ruby groans. Clearly Belle is a ‘fall hard, fall fast’ kind of girl.

“And his eyes go this lovely deep, dark brown when he’s lost in thought. He’s like a human chocolate digestive.”

“Um, how much wine have you had this evening? Do I need to make an intervention?”

Belle snorts.

“No point. It’s just an unreciprocated crush. Besides, I’m only working with him for two more weeks and then it’ll be back to polite nods, if that, when we see each other around town.”

Ruby can’t help yawning. “Alright, well it’s pretty late so if you’re sure you’re OK…”

“I’m fine. Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow for coffee, usual time?”

“Sure thing Belles, sleep well.”

Belle mumbles assent but she knows it’s going to be a while before that happens.

And next Sunday seems such a long way off.


	4. Chapter 4

Belle would be shocked if she knew that she was rapidly becoming an obsession with Mr Gold. 

Most evenings, over a glass of whisky, Gold spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about Belle. She’s got under his skin remarkably quickly and now he thinks she’s there to stay. 

He gets the sense that although she is not lonely (anyone as warm and as open as Belle could not possibly not have friends) she spends a lot of time alone. Having said that, she’s obviously quite close to the Ruby girl; he spotted them throwing snowballs at each other and making snow angels during the week and has caught glimpses of them in Granny’s nursing hot chocolates and no doubt gossiping about boys (not that he’s been looking out for her, mind).

Boys. Gold wonders if Belle has a boyfriend. He thinks not but he’s not privy to the town gossip. He can’t imagine though that someone as lovely as she wouldn’t be snapped up. Having said that, she’s quirky and quirky might not be seen as a desirable quality in a wife in a sleepy Maine town. 

He on the other hand enjoys their chats, now she’s softened a little towards him. She’s well-read and opinionated and he’s enjoyed some of their debates, ranging from the proper way to make tea (tea leaves only - never bags - and steep for three minutes) to the relative merits of Victorian female authors (Elizabeth Gaskell scored surprisingly well, as did George Eliot, with Jane Austen lagging some way behind).  
He’s also rather enjoying her not-so-subtle efforts to subvert the conditions of their deal and he wonders what outfit she’ll see fit to test him with today. (He hopes for his heart and lungs that it’s less easy on the eye than last week’s effort.)

Happily (or unhappily) Gold’s reverie about Belle’s extensive wardrobe solely comprising dresses designed to cause heart attacks is abruptly intruded upon by the sound of Belle chirping good morning as she comes crashing through the front door, bringing with her a tang of snowflakes and woodsmoke. Gold raises one elegant eyebrow as she comes over to where he’s standing and proceeds to drip melting ice all over his pristine counter that he has just polished.

He should take her over his knee and spank her.

Where did that thought come from?

“Miss French.” Nothing in his voice indicates his internal panic at his inability to control his thoughts. Instead, he slowly and deliberately selects a cloth and wipes the counter clean. Belle’s eyes sparkle more than the snow outside and Gold has to turn his face away before he’s dazzled. And distracted from the point he wishes to make.

“You’re late.”

Oh come on Mr Gold,” Belle protests. “It’s snowing out there or haven’t you noticed?”

“You live,” and Gold gestures towards the other side of the street, “less than five minutes away. By foot.” With a dramatic flourish he waves his fob watch under her nose to punctuate his point but all he gets is a sunny smile that he can’t help but respond to. Truth told, he’s finding her harder and harder to resist.

Gold decides to let it go for the moment. He knows how to pick his battles and this probably isn’t one of them.

“Yes well, if you’re ready, then we have a lot to get through today. First of all, I’d like you to…,” and Gold’s voice trails away as Belle takes her coat off. 

Today it seems that fabric is in short supply if her dress length is anything to go by. Belle appears to be impervious to the arctic weather conditions. Her dress is all frothy lace that skims her thighs and Gold really doesn’t know where to look. He finally settles on her feet, only to see that - despite the sheet ice - she has seen fit to wear shoes with heels that end in ferocious spikes. Oh yes, she’s definitely toying with him. 

“...dust the mobiles. You can start with the cut glass one in the window,”and he pulls open a drawer and points at a box containing polish and a selection of dusters.

‘I’ll be through here. I’ll see you later, Miss French”, and Gold vanishes, as if by magic. Once safely out of sight, he bows his head. This really isn’t good for his health. 

00000

Gold is finally making some headway with the blasted carriage clock, following a period of blessed peace and quiet, when he hears something heavy being dragged across the floor. He needs to see what the little dearie is up to so he puts the cog down carefully and rises to his feet. 

It seems Miss French is up to no good. In high heels.

She’s about half way up a rickety ladder, her goal clearly the mobile, which is just out of reach.

“What ARE you doing?”

Everything seems to happen in slow motion. Belle jumps, squeaking in alarm, and one of her shoes comes loose. Suddenly she’s leaning too far backwards, arms flailing like a windmill to try and maintain her balance, and then she’s falling. 

Gold finds himself with a lapful of very warm librarian.

“Ooof.” 

Gold is too winded to speak for the moment, only aware of a dull throbbing in his weak ankle and that his heart is pounding. As soon as he has his breathing under control, he seeks reassurance from Belle that she’s unhurt.

“Are you alright, Miss French?” Gold asks, with urgency in his voice. “Can you move?”

Belle turns in his lap to face him and she looks horribly pale. His heart clenches at the thought of her being in pain. 

“No, I’m fine. You’re the one I’m worried about, after all you broke my fall. In fact you saved me.”

She inches her fingers around Gold’s neck and toys with the tips of his hair and he can’t help closing his eyes for a second; the sensation is too exquisite, and then she’s let go and is pulling herself to her feet, staring down at him, her eyes wide, before offering him her hand to help him up.

They both busy themselves dusting themselves down and checking (surreptitiously) each other for injuries. When Gold is reassured that Belle will live, he ushers her gently, with a hand in the small of her back, to her usual armchair.

“Some tea, Miss French. Perhaps with a shot of something stronger to settle the nerves.” It’s not a question so Belle nods in acquiescence.   
Once Gold has made the tea, added a drop or two of brandy for good measure and he’s satisfied after she’s taken a sip or two that some colour has returned to her cheeks, he gestures at her feet, now missing a shoe.

“Miss French, far be it from me to score points with you, but perhaps your accident may serve as a timely reminder about the stipulations in our contract pertaining to footwear, heels and the lack of.” 

There is no rancour or heat to his words but Belle has the grace to look rather shamefaced, quietly slipping the offending item off her foot and then curling up in her seat.

Opting not to push the conversation further (and besides, if he hadn’t made her jump in the first place, none of this would have happened) Gold instead changes the subject and moves onto safer ground.

“Whilst you’re recovering, perhaps now might be the time for our weekly story.” He can’t believe he’s offering this up but she does look a little out of sorts and he can’t see her doing much more work this morning.

Belle looks up from the carpet which seems to have been fascinating her and her face brightens. 

“You have so many wonderful things Mr Gold, I could work here for a year and I’d never run out of things to ask you about.

“Be careful, dearie, what you ask for. It could be arranged,” Gold teases gently, and Belle twinkles at him.

“You can’t wait to be rid of me, come on admit it.”

Gold tilts his head to one side for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t be unhappy for you to continue your visits, if you promise to keep on bringing the biscuits.” It’s as close an admission as he’s prepared to make that he’s going to miss her company and that he dreads the thought of his days becoming drab and colourless again. 

Belle hums quietly and sips her tea and he wonders if she understands or even if she feels the same way.

“There was a ring I noticed my first week when I was polishing the jewelly.”

Gold hastily runs a mental inventory of all the pieces on display and can’t immediately think of anything that’s of sentimental value. 

“It looked Victorian; an amethyst surrounded by seed pearls?”

Ah, yes, Miss French strikes again. How on earth does she do it. She must be psychic, there’s no other explanation. Heaving himself out of his chair and resigning himself to yet another tale that will expose all his weaknesses, Gold leaves her alone for a few minutes before returning with a well-worn dark red velvet box with gold lettering engraved into the lid.

“I think you might be talking about this,” and Belle nods eagerly, craning her neck forward to get a look at its contents.

He pushes the lid open. Yes. It is. He might as well scrap his armoury of suits and come to work in his pyjamas for all the protection they provide against this infuriating, enchanting woman.

“This was my mother’s engagement ring.” He holds it up to the light for a moment. “She once told my father when they were having a blazing row that she’d always hated it. Too plain, too simple, not a solitaire diamond, not expensive enough.” 

Belle tuts loudly. “Some people are so ungrateful.”

Gold continues to assess the piece, whilst internalising the fact that Belle would perhaps like a unique, vintage piece if she was ever to get engaged. Maybe she’d like a turquoise topaz. Or tourmaline.

He realises his mind has wandered off to a world of inappropriate and refocuses. “Well, from an objective point of view, I suppose it’s not to everyone’s taste. Most women expect diamonds, not something old and unflashy.”

He smiles wryly at Belle, who’s hanging on his every word. “When my mother left us, she threw the ring - literally - at my father. Said it wasn’t worth the box it was kept in. As soon as she slammed the front door behind her, I remember him scrabbling around on the floor trying to retrieve it.”

Gold averts his gaze to stare at the fire. He’d never forgiven his mother for those bitter words she’d flung around, not caring how they wounded his father. They’d been better off without her but it had taken a long time to recover. He’s not sure that his father ever recovered.

Belle’s gentle “I’m sorry” brings him back to the present.

“It’s all in the past Miss French. When I look at it now I just see a pretty ring fit for a pretty hand. So long as it goes to a good home, I’ll be happy.”

And he’s surprised to realise that he actually feels like he’s telling the truth. He owns a few personal pieces of jewellry that do have meaning; his mood ring, a solid silver chain link bracelet that Bae bought him a few years back. Those things matter to him, the ring doesn’t. Not any more.

He snaps the box shut. There’s nothing more to be said.

“How are you feeling, Miss French?”

Belle flexes her ankle and winces.

“No more ladders for me, Mr Gold. Perhaps I could polish some silver instead and sit with you. I promise to be as quiet as a church mouse. Or as quiet as a librarian running a library.”

He flashes her one of his rare as hen’s teeth warm smiles and pours her another cup of tea.

“Polishing it is, then,” and they settle into a comfortable routine for the rest of the day, both of them quietly content to remain in each other’s company.

00000

It’s late and Belle is just admiring a now sparkling canteen of cutlery. It’s time to go home but she’s reluctant to leave the warmth of the shop and return to her dark apartment. Plus she doesn’t think she’s going to able to put her shoes back on.

She looks up and Gold is watching her, his eyes darker than treacle and her heart thumps once, twice. It’s a look that could melt her insides.

After a moment or two of further silence he clears his throat. “I think, Miss French, that given the extenuating circumstances, I may have to loan you a pair of wellington boots otherwise you’ll have to sledge your way across the street.”

Disappearing off to who knows where, there’s a lot of rustling before he returns bearing in triumph a pair of green wellies that look about five sizes too big for her and kneels in front of her to help her put them on. She feels faintly ridiculous as she gets to her feet but is happily distracted by what next comes out of his mouth.

“I’ll escort you across the road, if I may. I’d like to know you get back in one piece.”

Belle feels a little thrill of excitement as she watches him shrug on a beautiful cashmere coat. He looks so utterly gorgeous and she loves the fact that he is utterly oblivious to it. She wants to help tie his scarf around his neck but thinks that might just be pushing her luck. She’ll save that for next time.

Together they gingerly pick their way across the road; visibility is dreadful and the snow is coming down fast. There’s no traffic around, nobody else out so they’re all alone. Feeling emboldened by how otherworldly it feels, Belle bravely places her hand in the crook of Gold’s elbow and there’s that flutter again as he places his gloved hand over hers. It’s probably for nothing more than balance but still. They’re touching, actually touching.

At her doorway, Gold hesitates and Belle glances over. There are snowflakes in his hair, even some on his eyelashes, and she knows she can’t just say goodnight to him and let him go home to the pink house on the hill whilst she sits upstairs all alone. She may never get this chance again.

Buying time, Belle brushes snow off his shoulder before asking if he might spare just a few minutes more to see her upstairs. He seems momentarily distracted by her light touch but then, after flicking out his tongue to moisten his lips, he nods his agreement.

And now the tables are fully turned; Belle has lured the terror of Storybrooke into her web if the sound of his cane echoing in the stairwell is anything to go by. From there, it will surely be easy to entice him in for another drink, and then maybe a bite to eat and perhaps a DVD to watch. The possibilities are endless.


	5. Week 4: Checkmate

The snow’s been falling for hours, deadening sound and making Belle feel that she’s caught up in a silent bubble. A bubble enclosing her and a man who is looking increasingly grumpy. It seems the pawnbroker is a bad loser.

“I thought you said you were a beginner.”

“No, I said I hadn’t played in quite a long time which as you well know, is not the same thing at all,” Belle gently admonishes her adversary.

A harumph makes her smile and it widens as Gold raises his glass in a silent toast to her and reluctantly knocks over his queen.

“Another game?” Belle asks hopefully, not wanting this day to end, knowing that it’s highly likely that with the end of their four week contract she may never get to spend this sort of quality time with Gold again. He’s never given any indication this is anything other than a business deal - and one that technically concluded two hours ago. 

The pawnbroker glances out of the window. The storm which has been raging most of the day shows no sign of abating and the power’s been out for two hours. Plus they’re warm where they are, cosy even, with the candles that are scattered around the room giving off a gentle glow. Neither of them are going anywhere any time soon.

Gold smiles wryly. “Why not, Miss French.”

“Belle.”

“Miss French.” And he quirks an eyebrow at her.

Belle sends a mock glare in his direction, more than a little frustrated that he so stubbornly refuses to use her name. As s one of life’s observers she strongly suspects it’s because he wants - for some bizarre reason - to firmly keep up all those barriers he’s erected, even with her. It’s annoying (and that’s an understatement) but Belle is equally determined and stubborn and has no intention of letting him win this particular game.

“Fine” she huffs, resetting the pieces. It’s an exquisite chess set, old, Victorian possibly; the pieces ornately carved and incredibly tactile. She catches him watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face. The flickering light accents his cheekbones and catches the strands of silver in his hair. He takes her breath away and she has to resist the urge to lean in to trace his face with her fingertips.

To distract herself Belle says the first thing that pops into her mind.

“Where did you get this set from, it must be decades old”?

“Ah, and there I was thinking you’d forgotten you were owed a story”, he drawls, sounding more Scottish than usual. 

Belle leans forward and sips on her brandy, enjoying the warmth of it trickling down her throat. It’s lucky Mr Gold keeps a supply of alcohol in the shop (“you never know when it might be needed, Miss French”). If the positions were reversed the best she’d be able to rustle up for him from her “cellar” would be some ouzo, left over from a trip around the Greek Islands decade ago and she’s not sure the debonair Mr Gold would appreciate such a fine elixir. She holds in a tiny sigh; sometimes she thinks they’ve a lot in common and then at times like this she realises their worlds are galaxies apart.

She’s brought back to Planet Earth when Gold carries on speaking. 

“Actually, for once, there really is no story to tell. I was up the coast for the weekend, a bit of a busman’s holiday, saw the set in the window of a bric-a-brac shop and just really liked it. Something about the pieces, you know. They’ve got a bit of character to them.”

Gold picks up a pawn and gently strokes it, which does terrible things to Belle’s imagination. She’d never realised it was possible to have a thing for hands until she started working in the shop and seen the way Gold carried out his repairs. She’s spent several evenings imagining just how exactly he could put them to work.

The images flitting across her mind make her shiver and she pulls the woollen blanket Gold had given her a little higher up her legs. And of course, he immediately notices because he’s a man who misses nothing. Apart from the fact she fancies the pants off him.

“Are you cold, Miss French, shall I put some more wood on the fire? You should wrap up more warmly, you know. Don’t want you catching a chill.”

Gold had been more than a little surprised when she’d turned up this last morning for once actually dressed to suit the weather. Thick grey opaque tights, a black loosely woven woollen dress with a red silk embroidered collar and a matching beret perched at a jaunty angle. It seemed that she’d finally seen reason yet he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit disappointed that she’d abandoned their game. 

A feeling that lasted for the time it took her to take off her coat. 

The back of Belle’s dress was criss-crossed closed with scarlet ribbons that stretched from the nape of her neck all the way down to the base of her spine. He had hoped she hadn’t heard his heart stop. Miss French might just be the death of him.

Belle’s lilting voice cuts into his reverie, dragging his mind out of the gutter.

“Oh stop worrying about me, it’s perfectly cosy here,” and she flashes one of her warm smiles at him. 

“Is there anyone who might need to know you’re safe?” (Gold congratulates himself on his subtle probing.)

Belle looks surprised at the question. “My father, you mean? He’s out of town this weekend, at some sort of flower show, and he’s not back until tomorrow morning.”

“Or - er - your…” He trails off as he notes the rather speculative gleam in Belle’s eyes. Perhaps the self-congratulation was premature. He continues to flounder silently until Belle helpfully chips in to put him out of his misery.

“Oh, you mean do I need to let my boyfriend know?” She tilts her head on one side, watching him. 

Gold prays that he doesn’t look like a nodding dog. Or a puppy dog. Or any other sort of canine, come to that.

The gleam in Belle’s eyes gives way to something else, an expression that’s fleeting, one that Gold doesn’t have time to read before it’s gone. “No, there’s no one serious at the moment, not since I split up with Greg last year and well, I’ve always believed that it’s so much better to be on your own than settle for a second-rate relationship.”

Relief rushes through Gold’s veins before he frowns in sudden concern. “Was he, I mean did he treat…”

For a man with two degrees who was a practicing lawyer for years, Gold is acutely aware that he is demonstrating a remarkably poor grasp of the English language. As he tries to untangle his tongue, Belle continues as if she hasn’t noticed his confused line of questioning.

“Kind? Well he wasn’t unkind. He was just - a bit self-absorbed, you know? Liked to talk himself up all the time, wanted me to look good, a bit of arm candy when he was hanging out with his friends, but he didn’t really take much interest in me. I always felt he tried to bring me down to his level rather than try to come up to mine.”

Gold has stopped trying to speak and instead is hanging on her every word, baffled how anyone lucky enough to be dating Belle wouldn’t treat her as if she was the stars and the moon. 

Belle suddenly laughs, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, that makes me sound horribly arrogant. It’s just that I wanted to be able to talk about anything and everything and he wanted to be always doing something. He couldn’t sit still, like you are now, and just listen; he had to be the centre of attention, and in the end I just decided that I wanted -no needed - more than a gesture on Valentine’s Day and my birthday.”

Finally Gold remembers how to connect his mouth with his brain.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Belle,” dropping in the moment his determined formality. “You should always strive for the best of everything. You owe it to yourself. And quite frankly, Greg sounds like an undeserving fool if he couldn’t see what he had with you.”

He grinds to a halt, realising that was more than he wanted to say but the intense look on Belle’s face as she stares at him makes him want to say more.

He leans in to her. “You’ve been nothing but gracious these past four Sundays, spending time with an old curmudgeon. You could have been cold civility but instead you’ve brightened up this place with a smile that could light up the whole of Maine. You could have been spitting fire at me, but instead you’ve shared tea and biscuits with me, engaged in conversation with me, challenged me, beaten me (he points to the chess set lying forgotten between them) and it’s been nothing but stimulating. And there’s nothing I would change, nothing.”

Gold pauses, not sure what else to say. In fact, he’s said too much already, given too much of himself so he simply contents himself with whispering “Never sell yourself short Belle, never. Or you’ll have me to answer to.”

He’s so caught up in the moment that he hasn’t quite twigged that Belle is still silent. He looks up from the table and sees with alarm that her eyes are brimming with tears, lips trembling from the effort to not cry. (Oh God, he’s hurt her feelings, oh God he’s worse than Greg, he bets even Greg’s never actually made her cry.) 

Gold gropes for his pocket square and hands it silently over to Belle who blows her nose on it in a most unladylike fashion. He has a second handkerchief in his pocket and hands that over too. Belle thanks him and then does a double take as she notices that it’s monogrammed. 

She looks between the handkerchief and its owner and miraculously her tears have dried up. She wiffles her nose like a hound scenting blood and he knows she’s locked her sights on him and there is to be no escape.

“So, RG, seeing as how the chess set didn’t come attached with a story, you still officially owe me one. And this” as she waves the handkerchief under his nose, “is it.”

Gold lunges for the handkerchief but he’s too slow. She hides it behind her back and smiles smugly.

“Ah, ah, no cheating. ‘R’. Reginald? Rory? Ronald?”

Gold puts his best poker face on.

“OK, then, let’s see. Richard, Robbie or Raymond?”

Gold congratulates himself for not folding. But Belle is relentless.

“You owe me, Mr Gold. Whose fault was it I fell off the ladder. Who’s been feeding me alcohol?” as she brandishes her brandy glass at him.

On the other hand.

“Enough Miss French, you win. You win. But this is our secret.”

“Are you asking for a deal, Ricardo?”

“Miss French, I beg you...”

“Belle”

Gold sighs. “Very well, Belle, I beg you…”

As victory is clearly hers, she is willing to let him off the hook. “Fine, I’m only teasing. Our secret.” (And Belle thrills at the thought.)

Gold sucks in a breath. Here goes nothing. 

“It’s Rex.”

Belle tilts her head on one side, contemplating the man opposite her, who’s blushing like a schoolboy. “Rex. I like it. It suits you. You can be rather regal and haughty when the mood takes you.”

“I am not.”

“And arrogant.”

Gold splutters. 

“Arrogant? After the way I let you ride roughshod over me, Miss French, I can’t think of a less appropriate adjective.” 

Belle’s smirk is wiped off her face very quickly when Gold is quick to retaliate.

“Well if I’m arrogant, then you’re impetuous. And how about an inability to follow simple instructions such as ‘Don’t wear high heels in the workplace’. And…” 

Belle repudiates his nonsense by sticking her tongue out at him and Gold can’t help laughing, a genuine guffaw that takes them both by surprise. He wonders what sort of deal it is she has in mind and secretly hopes that it in some way binds him to her forever. 

He might as well find out what she’s got planned.

Gold straightens his shoulders. “So go on then, put me out of my misery. What am I signing my name on the dotted line to?”

Belle looks at him mischievously, her eyes twinkling, and his heart beats out a syncopated rhythm. And then she hops out of her chair and before he realises what’s happening, he’s suddenly got an armful of warm, soft librarian.

“What - what” he splutters, completely caught off-guard.

She wriggles in his lap which does nothing at all for his equanimity.

Once she’s got herself comfortable, she’s sitting with her back pressed up against his front.  
Heat is emanating from Belle and if Gold doesn’t loosen his tie he’s going to pass out. Sliding the silk fabric through the knot, he throws it on the table and thinks he hears a little gasp from the tiny will o’ wisp who’s inflicting all sorts of exquisite torture on his person.

The only sound is the crackle of the wood as the sap spits on the fire and Gold is busy wondering if he should be doing something, saying something, when he hears Belle mutter something under her breath. It sounds remarkably like “fuck it” but surely Belle doesn’t use language like that. He’s the one with the potty mouth.

“So here’s my proposition, Rex. I need an assistant to help out at my Saturday reading class for the next month to cover for a long leave of absence. Nothing too onerous, just helping me choose the books for each session, registering participants at the front desk, making sure none of the little reprobates make an early bid for freedom. I think your strict demeanour might just help with the latter.”

Gold is listening, really he is, but he can’t help but be a little distracted by the red silk bow that is tantalisingly close to his face. Tentatively he raises his hands to the collar of her dress, he simply can’t help himself, and then he sees her give a tiny nod, tacit approval that he may proceed. 

Delicately moving her hair to one side, he uses his long, dextrous fingers to tug the bow loose and his finger accidentally (deliberately) brushes against her neck. Belle shivers in delight.

Slowly, teasing Belle now, he pulls the ribbon from its hooks revealing more and more of her smooth back, the skin pale and creamy. He can hear her swallow but that’s the only sound she makes. Finally the ribbon is free and in his hands. It’s warm. He runs it across his lips and then leans around to hold it against her cheek before dropping it into her lap.

“I take it you’re happy with my proposed deal then, Rex?” and Belle all but purrs when Gold presses his lips hotly against the side of her throat.

“When would you like me to start?” he growls before administering a nip and a lick to her earlobe, chuckling when she whimpers.

“The sooner the better, I think,” Belle manages to get out before his lips are on hers to seal the deal. She thinks she hears him murmur “Yes boss.”


End file.
